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    <div class="moby">
        <h2>Title Loomings</h2>
        <p>
            Call me Ishmael. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having
            little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on
            shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the
            world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the
            circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever
            it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself
            involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of
            every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper
            hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from
            deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's
            hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This
            is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato
            throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing
            surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree,
            some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean
            with me.
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        <p id="second">
            There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as
            Indian isles by coral reefs- commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and
            left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery,
            where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few
            hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers
            there.
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